You're not subtle, but you don't want to be. Fast, loud, and dramatic, you want people to notice you, and then get out of the way. In a world full of sheep, you're a raging bull.
I don't know guys, this doesn't sound like me AT ALL.... although I have to say, I like being called a raging bull, because as we all know, I am a ticking time bomb of fury.
Take the Which Sports Car Are You quiz.
Today, I was pleasantly surprised by a creature that I've never seen before. It all happened so fast, so I can't be sure what I saw, but I know that it was flying around, and dive-bombed me in the shower. In this case, I performed my usual first line of defense: I screamed, ran out of the shower, and slammed the bathroom door behind me.
However, I was not totally oblivious to the needs and fears of my roommate and her visiting mother, so I took it upon myself to invoke my second line of defense, as seen in the picture.
Consider yourself warned, Janay. I hope I was helpful.
Today I was poking around the US Navy's website (have I mentioned that I have no idea what I'm doing with my life?) and came across an interesting quiz. The Navy promised that if I took this quiz, they'd tell me what I should do with my life. Sounds easy enough.
The first set of questions was a series of pictures in pairs. I was supposed to pick whichever picture was "most like me". This proved to be much more difficult than I originally thought, because for the life of me, I couldn't figure out which pictures were "most like me". Allow me to walk you through my decision making process.
At first, I thought this picture was supposed to illustrate someone who is unprepared and walks into sprinklers. But the guy is wearing a tie and carrying briefcase, which seems pretty prepared to me. But he also is not wearing a belt, which may be a symbol for a lack of preparation in the case of a pantsing attack. There were so many mixed messages in this one that I just gave up, and decided that his guy is not like me because he can extend his arm straight out to his side, which I cannot do. But I can open my mouth that wide, and I sometimes stand in front of sprinklers. But I also do not have a briefcase.
Final verdict: Not like me.
I think I nailed this one on the first try - this guy is not like me. There are just too many things about the picture that creep me out, starting with his mock turtleneck and very odd coffee mug. Not to mention his unnecessarily huge muffin plate and uncomfortably high table. Is he sitting at the kiddie table? I am also not a fan of the Plastic Japanicus Plant behind him. But then I thought, if he continues to sit with his arm propped up on that table, then eventually he may not be able to lift his arm, which IS like me. However, I would like to make it clear that I do not wear mock turtlenecks.
Final verdict: Like me.
These next two pictures presented a dilemma for me, because I couldn't figure out which person I was supposed to be. Like M.C. Hammer, let's break it down now.
Ok, first we have a group of perfectly diversified people (note the token Asian... at least I think he's Asian, maybe Hispanic....either way, he fills the P.C. demographic). The best I can figure is that the three people standing around cheering have managed to sucessfullly turn the black man into a Wolfman who has begun his transformation. He clearly has a pained expression on his face (you would too, if you were becoming a Wolfman) while the others seem to be celebrating and wearing shirts that are too short. To be part of this group, the only requirement seems to be standing at an odd angle with your pelvis thrust forward. But they can all lift their arms above their head, which I cannot do.
Final verdict: not like me.
This second group - wait, isn't that the same Asian guy from the Wolfman group?? I think it is! Something is fishy here... I thought the Navy had just happened to catch totally normal people doing totally normal things in their totally normal, demographically balanced groups! I feel duped.
Back to the breakdown, this group is enthusiastically engrossed in watching Perfect Strangers. Maybe they have some kind of eating game where they have shove handfuls of popcorn into their mouth everytime Balky says "Don't be ridic-ooooo-lus." The other requirement of the game is that you have to keep your mouth open at all times, which can make for messy eating, which also explains the pleather couch. I can't figure out that pink wall though...
Final verdict: Like me. I mean, come on, who doesn't like Perfect Strangers? And also being sandwiched between two ethnically diverse guys on a pleather couch.
Last weekend, my sister (Bone Senior) was out in Utah for a day after driving cross-country with my brother. I thought, what better way to spend her 24 hours here than to take her to Lagoon, because apparently, Lagoon is where the fun starts. My company had given us discount tickets, and so at the peak of the day's hotness (3:00 pm), Bone Senior and I piled into the car along with our favorite marrieds (Ryan & Erin), and their sister Jenny.
I love amusement parks mainly because they give me the opportunity to scream like a little girl without a spider being present. I have a history of screaming - I love remembering the time I was asked to get off the hang-glider ride at the Strawberry Festival because I was screaming too much. The first time I told Nicole that story, I was met with a puzzled look, followed by a confused question: "They asked you to get off because you were screaming too much? Because you were having a good time??"
That's right, Nicole. The attendant said to me, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to get off the ride - you're just having too much fun and its distracting the other riders." That's exactly why I love Nicole.
Amusement parks are like the mecca for Nascar fans and parkies in general. The lack of clothing is directly proportionate to the mass of the person - the bigger they are, the prouder they are to let it all hang out. For all these reasons, I love people-watching at the amusement park. There is, however, a dark cloud that loomed over my joy at Lagoon. And I think you all know what I'm talking about when I say it: line humpers.
What is it about waiting in line that makes people hang all over eachother like dogs in heat? What is it about being it 105 degree weather that makes couples cling and claw at eachother as if they're about to be separated for life? What IS IT that compells these people to force me to vom in my mouth everytime I turn around and see them humping in line? Is there such a shortage of hotel rooms that we are now resorted to procreating in public?
There are signs at every ride that say "Line jumping may be cause for ejection from the park." I move that those signs be revised to warn "Line humpers may be punched in the head repeatedly, and they deserve it." A simple reiteration of elementary school rules would suffice: keep your hands, feet, tongues, and mouths to yourself at all times.
Seriously. I got so sick of seeing couples all over eachother that by the time I hit "The Spider" ride, I'd had it and retaliated the only way I knew how: I let out the mother of all SBD's in the direction of the teenage line humpers beind me. Also, we were in an enclosed tower. Also, I was standing above them on stairs that provided my bum optimal position - level with their heads. Also, it was about 110 degrees in that tower, and I'd eaten baked beans earlier.
Take that, Line Humpers.
For today's post, I thought I'd update the world about my frustration with doctors and medicine (no offense Barbie). I've been dealing with awful pain in my right shoulder for almost seven months now. For seven months and several doctor's appointments, the only advice I've gotten is to take ibuprofen. Thanks, Doc, I hadn't considered that option, how silly of me. NOW I understand why I pay outrageous insurance premiums and co-pays.
Finally after all these months of telling them that ibuprofen isn't helping, and I STILL can't lift my arm above my head, the Docs decided to take more x-rays and point at them with pointy things while I sit on in pain. Apparently, something about the x-rays tells them that I have calcified tendinitis and something called impingement.
I don't really know what that means, but if the illustrations show us anything, its that having impingement causes you to look like a Nazi-skinhead-mannequin who wears his skeleton on the outside of his skin. Impingement also forces you to heil Hitler and gives you dead, dead eyes.
Let's take a look at what else I learned about my shoulder condition, shall we?
I love the pictures of the people demonstrating just how painful it is. Look at this lady - it's obvious that she's not faking it. My advice to her would be to take some ibuprofen.
Now this lady clearly has a much more serious problem. My advice to her would be to stop doing the Arsenio Hall "whoop whoop", and also to stay away from whatever radioactive material she's been playing with. Also, those stripes just aren't doing anything for her.
This guy is my favorite. His pain is so intense that he has to use an oversized rubberband just to hold his arm on. And he's too ashamed to show his face - can you blame him? He probably uses one of those voice changers when he talks, so that no one knows who he is, like the interviews on A Current Affair. Scary stuff.
What we have learned here today is that shoulder pain is no joke. It's so unfunny, in fact, that I allowed the Docs to stab me with a syringe full of cortisone which has so far only numbed my entire arm, except for where it hurts. Another amazing medical breakthrough.
As I sit here at work, listening to Napoleon McBoom-Boom* listening to Wilson Phillips, I can't help but feel like stabbing someone in the head.
For those of you who don't know, Napoleon McBoom-Boom is my co-worker; we share a common partition. His taste in music has provided hours of entertainment for Jen and I. Over the past few months, I have enjoyed the soothing sounds of Weird Al, TaTu, and the theme from COPS. Yes, I'm serious. Isn't it amazing to think that someone actually FOUND the theme song to COPS, burned it onto a CD, and brought it into work for all to enjoy!
We have also had the pleasure of listening to his heated phone conversations about intergalactic warfare, X-Men, and the like. Here's to you, Napoleon McBoom-Boom, and to many more hours of entertainment!
But I digress. The point of this blog started out having nothing to do with Napoleon McBoom-Boom, but a person can only take so much Wilson Phillips before they start to snap. Which brings me to the real point of today's blog; the only thing I hate more than commercials about Eeeeee Deeeeee (a reptile dysfunction): Spiders.
Some of you may already know that my house has a spider infestation. Its the worst thing about living here. When we first moved in, the only way I knew how to deal with a spider sighting was to scream and slam the door as I ran out of the room. I'm not kidding.
Just how much do I hate spiders? A prime example would be the night that Nicole, Janay and I were in the living room, when suddenly a look of pure terror came over Nicole's face, and she screamed the kind of scream that cannot be duplicated, but makes you pee yourself every time you think about it. My back was to the window, and whatever she was screaming about was behind me. Any rational person may have feared there was a burglar outside the window, or maybe a werewolf, but not this rational person (and yes I do consider myself to be a rational person). My first, initial reaction was to jump up, scream louder than Nicole, "IS IT A SPIDER????!!!" (as if a spider was worse than a burglar or werewolf), then run into my bedroom, still screaming, and slam the door to ward off said spider. It turned out that it was only our friend Justin peering through the blinds.
Another example would be the time that I was carrying a plate full of pizza scraps across the room when Rachel looked at the plate I was carrying, and said, very seriously, "Sarah.......". And then I knew. I knew the way you know about a good melon. I knew and reacted before Rachel ever finished her sentence. I threw the plate, greasy pizza scraps and all, across the room, then ran screaming into my bedroom and slammed the door. In my defense, there HAD been a spider crawling across the bottom of the plate.
For my last spider trick, I'll tell the story of the magical green spider. I was meeting my friend Heather at the Trax station in Sandy, and I was moving my CD's from the passenger seat to my trunk. I picked up the case and saw a crumply looking green thing; I thought it was a leaf until it un-crumpled itself and revealed long spidery legs, and it scuttled away, out of sight. There was nothing I could do about it then, so I tried to enjoy the rest of the night without dreading the thought of a spider roaming free in my car. When I got back to my car, it was dark, and I was absolutely terrified to get in the car, knowing that a spider was crouching somewhere, just waiting for the opportune moment to lay eggs in my ear. I checked my surroundings as best I could, and then spent ten torturous moments speeding around, looking for a carwash.
There is nothing worse than driving around in a dark car without knowing where the evil spider lurks. Every little thing you feel brush against your skin makes you swerve. I finally found a gas station with a vacuum, and I'll be damned if I didn't spend SIX DOLLARS in quarters, vacuuming like a crack head jonesing for his next fix. But still no sight of the spider. Finally, on my last quarter, I spotted the devil's spawn crouched on the ceiling above my head.
There is nothing more satisfying and empowering than watching a spider be sucked up into a vacuum. I raised the roof with a "oooh ooh" for myself that night.
This is really how I react to a spider sighting. I think that I've made tremendous progress though. For a long time, my defense was to drop a cup on top of the spider, and then wait for a boy (usually Ryan) to come over and kill it. Sometimes it would be days before a boy would come over (I can't believe I'm admitting how non-existant my dating life is) and several cups would accumulate across my bedroom floor. They'd usually be dead under the cup by the time Ryan showed up, but that's beside the point.
My second line of defense was to put a spider repellant radar thing into every available outlet in my bedroom. That seemed to work for awhile, but as Senor Lightning Bolt recently told me, it's more likely that they're just little boxes with an extra outlet in them, and that spider's really don't react to any kind of radar. Well, excuse me Mister Smarty Man.
My final line of defense was to buy a fly swatter with a handle that's three feet long. Yes, really. It's even in the shape of a hand! It doesn't get any better than that. But I still have issues getting close enough to the spider to enforce the wrath of my Wonder Palm. And sometimes, the swatter isn't around, and these little suckers move fast, so I've got to react in turn. I've resorted to grabbing whatever is closest to smash them into oblivion. Last night was a prime example, but by some miraculous turn of fate, this particular spider managed to outsmart me and escape the noose.
I was sitting at my computer, when out of my periph, I catch a glimpse of something scuttling across the carpet. I jumped up and quickly scanned the room for the swatter, which was nowhere to be found. Well first I screamed, THEN I jumped up and looked for the swatter. A spider of gargantuan proportions was now resting on the carpet by my feet. The only thing around was a CD case, and it was one of those cheapy jewel cases, with the raised middle section (As seen in the first picture below). I brought the case down on top of the spider wi
th such a force that has never before been witnessed. He probably thought he'd been struck by the hand of God - THAT'S how hard I slammed the case down. The strike was also accompanied by my traditional scream-then-run-from-the-room defensive move.
I left the case on top of the spider for good measure, feeling confident that I had competely destroyed it. After a few minutes, I knelt down to remove the spider carcass, but upon close inspection of the case, I saw that the spider had survived! I had managed, somehow, to smack the case down with such precision placement that provided safe haven for the spider in the raised part of the case! What are the odds! One in eleventy-billion, maybe? I think I have better odds of winning the silver medal in men's ice dancing than of ever landing this shot again.
The close up picture with the helpful illustrative arrows point out the disgusting legs of the spider, visible through the slots of the CD case. I even messed with him a little and slid the case around just to watch him scramble to stay in the middle. I AM the puppet master.
Point in case (literally): the CD case is still on my floor. So if you know of any guys who can come over and discreetly kill and then dispose of a body, please let me know.
*Names have been changed to protect the nerds. I mean, the innocent.
I just have to say once again how much I love working at a place where everyone has a good sense of humor, and where my co-workers do their very best to keep up with my bally-hoo.
Today provided another opportunity for me to shine. My boss (who is notorious for giving me projects with extremely vague explanations) gave me an especially fun task. He said, "I need you to call Victor Idaho." That's it. No further explanation given, until I pressed my luck and replied, "Is he related to Johnny Utah??" which was followed by the sounds of chirping crickets, blowing tumbleweed, and a blank stare from my boss. This was immediately followed by my "Awkward Moment Hand Movement", and my accusing tone, "Guess you've never seen Point Break.........".
He hadn't.
Evidently, Victor Idaho is a place, not a person. But I hardly think it's my faux pas. My duty was to call the city and get the phone numbers for the building commission, and then call the architecht for the address of the building site. Sounds easy enough, right?
Wrong. As it turns out, there is only ONE phone number for the entire city government of Victor Idaho, and they don't have call waiting. After about a thousand busy signals and an hour later, I still hadn't gotten any further with my search for the address. The architecht passed me off to the Civil Engineer, who was out of the office and would not return until December. Maybe I exaggerate a bit, but not a lot. When he finally returned my call, HE didn't even know the address. The only clues I had were some street names written on the plans, which according to MapQuest and Yahoo Maps, did not exist on planet Earth.
I started to feel like I was on some kind of fantasy quest - searching for a mystical creature that was un-catchable. There seemed to be no hope of ever finding out where this building was going to be constructed. I did, however, get the names and addresses of several tasty restaurants in Vincent. My boss promised to visit Grumpy's Goat Shack and take a picture for me.
Not one to be deterred, I continued on my quest and was struck with a brilliant, truly BRILLIANT idea. If I couldn't find the address, I'd just make something up, and find THAT, just so it would look like I accomplished something! My boss would be so impressed with my treasure hunting skills.
As you can see in the picture, and inspired by Senor Lightning Bolt, I printed out a picture of a pot of gold and stuck it to a random page within the plans. When my boss came back, he asked if I'd found the address and other information. While Jen & Krysti sat by, stifling giggles, my boss and I had the following exchange:
Boss: Did you get that address?
Bone Junior: No..... but have you looked at these plans at all?
Boss: No, why?
Bone Junior: You haven't looked at them at all??? (excitedly flipping through the plans) You'll never believe what I found!
Boss: (getting excited and intrigued) What did you find?
Bone Junior: I called the city, and even though they couldn't tell me the address, they DID give me the exact location of something even better!!!
Boss: What is it!!!!!
Bone Junior: (pointing to the treasure with a grand flourish) I found the pot of gold!!!
Boss: (no words at this point, just marked disappointment and a dejected sigh that said, '
You are retarded and I want to fire you'.)
Behold the work of art.
I wasn't going to share this, but in the words of Andi, "Dignity shmignity." So there you go. Buckle your seat belts boys, you're in a for a fun ride.
This glorius thing of beauty that you see before you happened to me over the weekend. I won't specify which body part you're looking at, suffice it to say that I've been sitting on an inflatable donut at work.
I could just tell you how it happened, but this is where the interactive fun comes in. It happened to me in one of the following ways:
*Note: the scenarios you are about to read have actually happened to me. I'm not making this up. Now you must choose your own adventure to decide how this particular bruise happens*
Adventure A : After getting off the phone, you tell a friend that you're going to "hop in the shower" and then get ready to go. You go into the bathroom, and think to yourself, 'I wonder if I really can hop in the shower?!?!' With the water running, you attempt to bunny-hop your way into the shower. . .
Adventure B : You are at work talking to a subcontractor, trying desperately to convince him that you know what you're talking about, when the printer gets jammed. You squat down to get more paper out of the lower cupboard, and in the process....
Adventure C : You are tubing down the Provo river with your favorite marrieds, trying to catch up to them when you lift your bum to pick the increasingly northward-bound weggie. After achieving relief, you drop back into the water...
Now, the cliff-hanger results of your adventure:
If you chose Adventure A: As soon as your feet land in the tub, they immediately slip out from under you, causing you to flail and frantically grab at the shower curtain, which promptly comes loose from the wall and falls on top of you. At that same moment, you crack your patootey on the edge of the tub, rendering you helpless to ward off the attack from a giant lizard, which eats you.
If you chose Adventure B: You manage to ram your rump into the paper tray of the copy machine behind you, which is made of solid plastic and metal, and sticking out about 3 feet. The tray snaps off, but not before catching your skirt on it while you continue to squat down, forcing you to once again flail unflatteringly to try and salvage your dignity. You fail at that attempt, and are eaten by a giant lizard.
If you chose Adventure C: You ease back into the water, only to have your right butt cheek met dead-on by a jagged boulder of unrealistic proportions. It may have been an iceberg - you can't be sure, everything happened so fast. Less than twenty minutes later, another giagantic, volcanic-like rock rises from the rapids to strike you in the exact same place. You think you taught those rocks a lesson, but you think too quickly, because a giant lizard emerges from the river bed and eats you.
I suppose I've shredded my dignity enough for one blog. I'm leaving now to nurse my wounded pride...
I'll be honest - my job isn't that exciting, but I love it. I love the people I work with and I have fun every time I'm at work. Most of the excitement seems to be caused by my stunts, but I'm OK with being a sideshow for everyone's viewing pleasure. At the very least, it gives them something to talk about, right? But contrary to the popular song, it is NOT love they are talking about.
The bulk of my responsibility is dealing with any home owner's (lovingly referred to as home-o's, tee hee) who need work orders serviced or have warranty issues. It sounds easy enough, and it really is, but even I can't believe some of the calls that I get. I've created my own clever ways of dealing with some of these people.
** I swear, and Jen can vouch for me, that the conversations you're about to read actually took place, word for word ***
Home-O #1: There's a blue tube coming out of the ground in my back yard, and I have no idea what it is. I tried pulling on it, but it's stuck in the ground.
Me: Ma'am, that's probably your gas line, so, um, try not to pull on it anymore. Don't you remember what happened to Baby Jessica?
Home-O #2: There are screws coming back through the walls all over my house.
Me: That sounds like something you want to talk to a priest about, but we'll send someone over.
And my most recent, all-time favorite:
Home-O #3: There is a plane stuck on my roof.
Me: A plane???
Home-O: Yes.
Me: Um.... do you know where it came from?
Home-O: It's my brother's. It's remote control.
Me: (knowing already that this is not a warranty / work order issue) Ah. Is it still running?
Home-O: Well the batteries have probably died by now.
Me: Mmm hmmm. And is it the kind of plane with the little army guy flying it?
Home-O: Yes, it is.
Me: Right. (totally serious) And is the army guy shooting lasers at anyone?
Home-O: (Pauses, confused.) Um..... lasers??
Me: (still serious as a heart attack) Yes, sir, is he shooting his gun? Is anyone in any immediate danger of being shot?
Home-O: Uh.... I don't think he's got a gun.
Me: Ok, good, that's a relief. (finally laughing because the guy is starting to get more confused and freaked out). As long as no one is in any immediate danger. Um, this isn't really a work order.....
Ah, the joys of working in customer service.
Some of you may have read about Samuel on Andi's blog - she posted the first official picture of his appearances at work. Today I think I've outdone myself.
Ever since the hanging (see Andi's blog), Samuel has been resting peacefully on the bookshelf in my boss' (Dave) office. I felt it was time for him to come out of hibernation and say hello to Dave once again.
I lovingly adorned Samuel with my Elvis sunglasses and packaged him up. My accomplices, Jen and Joe (the accountant) helped me by making up a fake mailing label (and it looked oh-so-authentic) and delivering the package to Dave's desk.
As I type this blog, Samuel is waiting on Dave's desk. I sit here with baited breath and heaving bosom for Dave to return from his run and open the box... I'll post more later.
Lucky for me, Dave has always been a good sport about my shenanagins. Let's keep our fingers crossed for this one.
Doesn't he look fetching?
Check out the authentic mailing label
Joe taking Samuel to meet his maker... kind of.
A few weeks ago, I came into work and found this weird metal thing on my desk. It was V-shaped, black on one side and silver on the other side. I still have no idea where it came from or what it belongs to, but I got so tired of it just laying on my desk that I decided to make my own fun with it.
As you can see in the picture, I taped it to my shirt and wore it around like that for the rest of the day. You may be asking yourself, what's funny about wearing a V-shaped thing on your shirt? Well folks, I didn't just wear it. It was interactive.
I started tapping it and speaking into it, as if it was recording everything I said. In the middle of a conversation with a co-worker, I would tap The Communicator, and talk into it, saying, "Note to self... tell Buck that his cologne is overwhelming and unnecessarily powerful." And then continue on with the conversation as if nothing had happened. Oh, I also made a "bee-boop" noise every time I tapped it.
Then when I walked by the Vice-President's office, who was on a conference call with the accountant, I heard them picking up some feedback on the speaker phone. The VP said, "What's that noise?" And without missing a beat, I backed up and stuck my head in his door, saying, "Oh, nothing, its just my communicator....bee-boop!" and then walked away.
Hello, my name is Bone Junior, and I'm an incredible retard.
Due to popular demand, I'm finally posting pictures of the famous Tasty signs. To the left, you will see Ricardo McArt and Trucke 1021432. Say hello boys.
The story of how I came to posses the Tasties is a long and fabled one. It all started several years ago, when Erin (also known as Eagle Eyes Erin) began spotting these Tasty signs all over Utah valley, mostly nailed to street signs. The Tasties had extremely short life expectancies, as anytime we'd try to go see one, it would already be gone. The Tasties seemed to disappear for a few years, but our intrigue was peaked and they were sadly missed.
Until one fateful day last fall, when Erin called me in the middle of the afternoon, bursting with excitement as she breathlessly told me the best news : Tasty had returned. And there was much rejoicing in the land.
Tasty had been spotted on a speed limit sign on the way up Provo canyon. We knew our window of opportunity was brief, so plans were made to rescue Tasty that very night. Dressed to the nines in our warm comfies, Erin, Janay and I began our ascent into the canyon. Sure enough, there was Tasty, nailed to a sign just before a dangerous curve. We parked the car on the side of the treacherous highway and while Janay stood guard, Erin and I darted across the road. It was not unlike a game of Frogger, as we barely escaped with our lives.The end result was worth it, because now, two Tasties are on proud display in my living room. (The 2nd Tasty was found just outside Barbie's old apartment, south of Center street in Provo).
But the mystery is more mysterious than ever: Who makes the Tasties? What do they mean? Who is Ricardo and McArt? What do the numbers mean? I have begun my quest to find the answers, starting with the closest thing I have to a code breaker: my company's I.T. guy, Adam; and a designer who works with my sister, who will be known only as Senor Lightning Bolt so as to protect the names of the accused.
First I approched Adam with the question of numbers. I figured that since he knew the formula for finding the circumference of a circle, he must know some other crazy stuff about numbers. When I showed him the pictures and explained my theories, his reaction was a bit less that what I'd hoped for. He balked at me and seemed offended that I would assume him to be some kind of mystical code breaker. Well excuse me, Mr. I.T. guy.
Next up was the designer. I emailed him the pictures and also explained the back story. Senor Lightning Bolt gave me more feedback then most. Our conversation was as follows:
senor lightning bolt: ok... so we know this person is untrained in the arts.
bonejunior: we do?
senor lightning bolt: um. yea.
senor lightning bolt: totally.
senor lightning bolt: needs heavy meds and a good woman
bonejunior: how do you know its a guy
senor lightning bolt: just a guess. linework is too coarse for a woman. also... most women probably wouldn't add the adam's apple. could be a woman though. women also tend to draw clean-shaven men.
bonejunior: what do you think it means?
senor lightning bolt: i think it means Utah is a boring state to live in.
Thank you, senor lightning bolt, for astutely discovering what most of us already know about living in Utah. Undeterred, I continued to pick the designer's brain for more theories. I suggested that maybe the numbers actually corresponded to letters. His response:
senor lightning bolt: which would spell what?
bonejunior: i have no idea.
senor lightning bolt: we're getting close now!
senor lightning bolt: if i'm ever kidnapped... i don't want you looking for me.
I think we've made it clear that I'm not cut out for the life of a code breaker, or any other job that involves solving puzzles more complicated than the questions on The Cash 
Cab. The designer did have some good ideas about checking out local art stores for info. But I'd much rather just blog about it and ask you all for your ideas and theories. This is one mystery that I won't let stagnate!!
Here we see the rare Tasty in detail: notice the strange markings and trademark symbols. Are we on the border of copyright infringement here? Isn't it exhilirating to be tap dancing on the brink of legality?
The Devil Wears Prada
What a great way to start my fourth of July holiday - driving down University Avenue, gawking at all the crazies (also known as the people who have staked out their blankets, tarps, lawn chairs and sleeping bags with caution tape for the highly anticipated Provo City Parade tomorrow.) People have been out there since before the weekend, camping out on the sidewalks to make sure they have front row seats for the big show.
Personally, I've never seen the parade here (is that sacreligious? Is my blood no longer blue?) so maybe I just don't understand what all the hoo ha is about. Maybe I'll never know. And I'm ok with that.
The whole point of driving down University was to get to the theater for the last cheap show of The Devil Wears Prada. My usual movie buddies in tow (Erin, Ryan, and Janay), I was just bursting with excitement to get into the theater - whoda thunk it would be this crowded at 5:00 on a Monday night? Our usual seats were taken (first row of the upper level, with the bar in front of it) so I led the pack up the steps to the next best prime time seats - middle of the row, towards the top. As we made our way up the right side aisle, I saw a girl directly opposite me in the left side aisle, also making her way upwards. We made eye contact, and in that moment I knew that she too was after the prime seats - now it was just a race to the death. I made a beeline (what the heck does that mean, anyway? What is a bee line??) for the row, blubber bouncing in all the right places, and elbowed my way across the lap of the lady in the end seat. My nemesis was making the same hurdling progress, but there was no way I was going to lose the exact middle seat. We're talking prime real estate here. We met in the middle, and I muscled my way into the seat. More like, flabbied my way into the seat.
Score one for Bone Junior!
But then... she sat down right next to me - throwing down the gauntlet. No one likes to sit next to strangers in the theater, and she was testing my dedication by forcing me to choose between sitting next to her Indian-food-smelling body, and giving up the prime seat. For those of you who know me, I don't think I need to tell you which choice I made. We all know that nothing gets between me and my middle seat. Plus, it gave me the opportunity to purposely usurp all of her elbow room.
My next joyous experience came when the slide asking everyone to silence their cell phones came up on the screen and stayed up for about five minutes, promising us that our feature presentation would start momentarily. When this happens, my favorite thing is to watch the people in the audience, and see how long it takes for them to start turning around to stare at the little window of the projection room at the back of the theater. Some of these people really get into it - their conviction to bore holes through the glass with their eyes really inspires me. Next time, I'm going to try and start a revolution of hundreds of people all staring at that little window in unison. It could be like the Care Bear Stare, and suddenly hearts coming shooting out of my eyes. Maybe those hearts would break the glass...?
Back to the movie, I'd have to say that I loved it on many levels. I'd read the book last summer and was really looking forward to seeing Meryl Streep flaunt the magic fountain of youth that she's sold her soul for. She really looks incredible!! I personally think that she pocketed some of the left over potion from Death Becomes Her. I know you know what I'm talking about, don't front.
The first thing I noticed was the Anne Hathaway looks like my sister. The second thing I noticed was that Ryan was way more into the film than I expected him to be. More into it than I expected anybody to be. There were several dramatic moments when the theater was silent, except for Ryan's cries of disbelief and shock. This man made no secret about how much he was loving the movie. It was thoroughly entertaining, and surprisingly toned-down from the book. I was hoping for more outlandish displays from Streep's character, but she was amazing anyway. And Anne Hathaway is just too cute. In all, it was really fun.
After leaving the theater, my movie buddies saw a little bit of the devil in me (groan, eye roll.... can you believe I just made that terrible pun / trendy reference?? Neither can I). We were in the lobby, waiting for Ryan, when I felt a sticky projectile hit my leg. I looked down and saw some globular thing on the floor by my foot, and then a sticky looking kid (he was probably twelve or thirteen) bending down to pick it up and add it to the pile of sticky globular things in his hand. I think Erin and Janay would say that I attempted to burn a hole in his head with my laser beam death ray eyes. I stared at him with a look of pure disgust and abhorrance that I didn't know I could achieve, until he mumbled an apology. It was truly a thing of beauty to behold - or so I'm told.
Big plans for the fourth - I'm already planning out our next tiff with the river parkies that try to make us pay them to park on the public road there. Last time, the lady actually chased after us, into the road, threatening to call the sherrif. Thanks to my job, I have access to some big brains who know all about easements and zoning laws and such, and I feel pretty secure that there's nothing they can do to us for parking on the road. But I'm getting really sick of having to deal with their head bobs and altered English every time we get out of the river.
So parkies, beware, because this time, I'm bringing the big guns. I hope you bought your tickets to the show.
